


half sick of shadows

by hawkeish, veorlian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Injury, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Psychological Trauma, Serious Canon divergence, The Fade, death mention, holy shit that's a lot of canon divergence, so much yearn, us writing: why not add more problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29590062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/veorlian/pseuds/veorlian
Summary: For the first time, she looked up at his face. His eyes were clear and blue as the Waking Sea, and as they locked onto hers, something warm kindled inside her chest.“Carver?” she murmured.Relief flooded his expression, dancing in those eyes, and he held onto her just a little too tight.“Oh, thank the Maker,” he breathed.Carver Hawke, once the captain of the Kirkwall Guard, has left his old life behind to return to Ferelden and become Commander of the Inquisition. But when another Hawke chooses to make the ultimate sacrifice, he’s reunited with some old friends to get her back—including a certain elf he thought he might never see again, whose arcane expertise might just save his sister.This is a DA2 fic masquerading as a DA:I fic and we have no shame. Hope you’re ready to feel the yearn. Wave to the canon as it passes us by, folks!(Updates every 2 weeks!)
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke (background), Bethany Hawke/Isabela (background), Carver Hawke/Merrill
Comments: 16
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cws for death mention, blood, everything to do with blood magic
> 
> think we need any other tags/warnings? let us know and we'll add them right away!

“How could you let this happen?” Carver Hawke, Commander of the Inquisition, demanded. 

How _could_ she. After everything with Kirkwall, with Anders. After Mother. After they’d sworn to keep each member of their ever-shrinking flock safe as houses, far from harm, untouchable?

“So blame falls squarely on _my_ shoulders, brother?” The Champion of Kirkwall—Marian, first of the Hawke name—snapped. “You think I want her hurt? You think I didn’t try to stop her?”

“Clearly not hard enough!”

A pause, one long enough to make Carver wonder whether he should have bitten his tongue. And then, a scathing reply:

“Well, don’t you sound just like Mother.”

Rolling his shoulders, Carver huffed and looked away. Silence hung in the air between them, an unwelcome visitor; her words burned, like poison slowly seeping into a wound. But Marian resurrected the ghost of Leandra so often in petty little arguments that their mother’s memory only stung for a second, now.

 _Petty_ or _little_ this was not, however.

The Herald’s Rest was a nice tavern, and nothing more. After years of the Hanged Man, any other establishment felt soulless, though always smelled distinctly better. The Herald’s Rest, mind, was the only tavern for over twenty leagues; it was the kind of place that would have to do. But the Herald’s Rest was not the kind of place Carver had been expecting to discuss the intricacies of his sister’s sacrifice.

Bethany Hawke, Grey Warden, stuck in the Fade for the rest of time.

In fact, Carver hadn’t been expecting to discuss any sacrifice at all, most certainly not that of the person he knew best and loved most in the world. There’d been a plan. There’d been precautions. There’d been a promise: to keep each other safe. _On pain of death_ , Ri had added at the end of their oath, with that wry smile and blasé laugh of hers that sometimes made Carver want to punch the nearest available wall.

Just another of her little jokes, like all the rest. Yet here they were, barely four years after Marian’s last mistake, in a tavern that had emptied in a heartbeat the moment that she’d stalked in, thunder-faced and red-eyed. 

Ri was pacing the floor, fists balled tight enough to blanche her scarred knuckles. Across from her, Carver sat hunched over, the calloused fingertips of one hand pressed to his forehead. Two untouched drinks huddled at the centre of the table between them, as if retreating to neutral ground; Cabot had quite literally vanished, and if Cole were still up in the rafters, he was quiet as death. Shadows clung to every corner of the room, and the dead air between them was static with the kind of tension that Carver only remembered from those first, grey months in Kirkwall—back when they’d been at each other’s throats, with only Bethany able to talk any sense into the pair of them.

 _Bethany._ His twin, his mirror. Stuck, somewhere, in the empty, monstrous nothingness of the Fade. Alone. Afraid. If she could even still feel, that was. If she even still knew where she was, or who she was. Maker, if she was even still—

“She’s not dead,” Marian stated, flatly, as she paused directly in front of him. 

Carver’s head whipped up, eyes narrowing. “I never said—”

“You have that look on your face,” his sister noted. For a moment, he swore he could see her soften. “Like you did when you thought Meredith would kill me.”

“This is different,” he replied. “Meredith was stabbable. The Fade is not _stabbable_ . The Fade—you don’t _survive_ the Fade, Ri.”

“She can. She will. She’s a Hawke, Carver,” Ri said, after a few moments. “And I think I can get her back.”

“Sure.” Carver snorted. “And nugs can fly.”

“Andraste’s flaming knickers, will you just listen to me for once?”

“Oh, because Maker forbid anyone not listen to Marian Hawke for one Maker-damned minute!” Carver shot back. “That worked _so_ well when you promised that Anders wasn’t a threat—” 

“Commander,” a small voice broke in, wavering around the edges. “There’s, uh, someone here to see you.”

Two sets of ghastly blue eyes slid towards a scout stood in the dead centre of the Herald’s Rest’s now-open door.

The woman seemed young, barely out of her teens. Another fresh recruit, Carver reasoned, wide-eyed and clad in armour she’d hopefully grow into before a lyrium-tainted Templar had the chance to take her out. Beneath their piercing gazes, she slowly paled, looking as though she wanted to be absolutely anywhere except standing in the doorway of an empty pub, with only her Commander and the notorious Champion of Kirkwall for company.

“It’s not a good time,” Carver replied sharply. The scout visibly gulped and took a step back, and Carver felt a twinge of guilt. Even after months of this, and years working his way up the Kirkwall Guard, authority and he were sometimes uneasy bedfellows.

“I’m—she said—she was quite insistent,” the scout mumbled.

 _She_?

From behind him, Carver heard his sister make a _hm_ that he couldn’t quite read. Carver lowered his voice. _Maker, read the room._ “I said it’s not a good time—”

“Hello!” a bright voice called from behind the scout, and Carver’s heart fell to his stomach.

He’d heard the expression ‘out-of-body experience’, sure. It’d never really clicked for him, though—most of his experiences were of the rather bodily being-hit-repeatedly-with-large-weapons nature. But now, hearing the all-too-familiar voice echoing up to the dilapidated rafters of the Herald’s Rest, he understood. He got it. And, somehow, he was unable to look anywhere but _her._

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” the interrupter asked, stepping into the tavern.

 _Yes,_ Carver should’ve said. _No,_ Carver wanted to say. But Carver found that he suddenly couldn’t form words, each and every one dying on his tongue, because as he looked upon Merrill Alerion, a strange and familiar feeling set alight within his chest. 

Clad in intricately engraved leather armour and a moss-green cloak crowned with raven’s feathers, she was as beautiful as she’d been the last time he saw her. Now, though, the worry lines creasing her forehead were deeper, and her hair was longer too: woven through with tiny plaits, it brushed against the thick, sunflower-yellow scarf draped around her neck and shoulders. More pearlescent scars were scattered across her skin—a particularly nasty one sliced through her left brow, narrowly missing her eye—and there was something about her that seemed hardened, somehow. But her gaze still danced with that same, bright wisdom he remembered, and her smile was just as dazzling.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite blood mage, right on time!” Ri called, too cheerfully for Carver’s liking. “I was just explaining to Brother Dearest that we’ve just about figured out how to rescue Beth.”

We’ve? _We’ve?_ Maker, was his sister a fool? Carver’s residual anger at Marian roared back, and he shot to his feet, wheeling on her.

“We are _surrounded_ by templars!” he hissed, slamming a hand against the table hard enough to knock the steins. “It isn’t safe for Merrill to be here, let alone get involved in this! Of all the irresponsible, thoughtless—”

“I volunteered to come,” Merrill cut in. Her voice was clear, commanding, although not unkind: it was the voice of a person who knew what it was to lead. Suddenly, Carver wondered what she’d been doing in Kirkwall since he left. He’d never written to her, although crumpled letters decorated his office. How many, he didn’t want to know. Too many, that was for certain.

“That’s not....it’s still not safe for you,” Carver said, uncertainty clouding his words. “I may be Commander, but there are some here I don’t wholeheartedly trust.”

“You weren’t that worried about _me,_ ” Ri huffed, but Carver let her words roll off him, watching Merrill’s reaction carefully. She hadn’t flinched at the mention of Templars. In fact, she seemed completely unruffled.

“Varric trusts the Inquisitor, and that’s good enough for me,” Merrill replied, with a light shrug. 

“But—”

“Are we rescuing Bethany, lethallin _,_ or are we going to stand around arguing?” Merrill asked sharply, throwing them both a look that said _listen to me._ “Respectfully, I’m the one with the eluvian; I know the risks. And we all make choices, Carver.” Staring straight at him, she let out a heavy breath. “I’m choosing to do _this_.”

Choices. There certainly had been choices, hadn’t there?

The moment Merrill’s words fell from her lips, soft as rain and yet hard as flint, Carver’s face bloomed with heat. But after taking a steadying breath, he drew himself up to his full height, forcing himself to think commanderly thoughts that had nothing to do with decisions, or consequences, or things left behind.

Since Adamant, it had been clear that Marian had _ideas_ . Marian always had ideas. They were usually half-baked attempts at heroism, often filled with undue risk, and, without fail, ridiculous. The part of Carver that was Commander—the part of him that needed to be in control—balked at the idea of letting his sister loose once again. If he were honest with himself, Ri was more of a risk than anything else. A wild card. A spanner in the works. A fucking _annoyance,_ whom he couldn’t help but love.

The part of Carver that was a grieving, hollow brother, however, dug his nails into her hopeful nonsense and refused to let go. Maybe ridiculous was what they needed to rescue their sister. 

If there was even a sister to rescue at all.

“Explain,” he instructed, though he knew exactly what would come next.

Ri’s grin was bright as Andraste’s funeral pyre. “Oh,” she said, the slight worry in her voice giving her away. “You’re going to _hate_ it.” 

Carver sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So, no different from any of your other plans.”

And that was when Merrill suppressed a laugh and stepped aside, as another familiar voice called, “We aren’t too late, are we, little bird?”

Carver’s heart practically sank into the floor, just as scalding anger surged through him.

“No,” he said, flatly. “You’re not doing this.”

“Now, is that any way to talk to your friends?” Isabela asked lightly, with a wiggle of her eyebrows in greeting, one arm slung around Fenris’ waist. Carver’s eyes flicked to the hooded figure standing behind the motley crew. A cat was curled around their shoulders, and at the sight, Carver’s expression hardened.

“What in the Void are you doing here?” he asked, not bothering to keep the rage out of his voice.

“I want to help,” Anders said, plainly, as he drew the hood away. Beneath it lay the Anders that Carver remembered—that nose you could use as an ice-pick, that serious expression that probably hid something much darker. But gone was the permanent twelve-day shadow, and the locks of spun gold that Marian had loved to go on about. Instead, Anders’ hair was cropped close to his skull, merely a fine dusting of blonde, and it looked fucking _odd_.

“And,” the mage added, voice low, “to keep the woman I love from doing anything else that might get her killed. _”_

Ri snorted out a laugh, but her expression was tender. “Save the theatrics, darling. You’re one to talk.”

“And we don’t need your _help_ ,” Carver spat, ignoring the daggers his sister shot him at the words. “Did you think a shit haircut would make you unrecognisable—”

“Carver,” his sister muttered darkly.

“No, Marian! Stop making excuses for him! Did you think we’d magically _forget_ what he’s done—”

Pressure on his arm, featherlight, drew him from his tirade; Carver’s voice broke, then stopped completely. He looked down to find Merrill’s soft green eyes turned up to his, her hand laid on the soft cleft of his elbow.

“It’s all right, Carver,” she murmured. “Anger won’t save her. But if we need him, Anders might.”

When Merrill gently squeezed his forearm, the knots of tension in him slowly unwound, leaving only an empty exhaustion—and a lingering irritation, more at himself than anything else—behind. She was right, as usual. Wise, as usual. Maker, he wished she wasn’t so level-headed, and compassionate, and—

“Surprising nobody, Merrill is correct,” Marian said, a hand on her hip. “We’ll get Beth back, but we need all the help we can get. I love you, brother, but if you think otherwise, you’re a fucking idiot.”

But his sister’s words may as well have been whispers, for Carver didn’t look at her. He barely heeded her at all. Instead, his eyes were still fixed on Merrill, on the determination written across her face. How many sleepless nights had he spent thinking about her? Tossing and turning, wondering about what it would be like to see her again, to say the things he should’ve said? Swearing in the Maker’s name that he’d be able to?

The number of scrawled letters he’d never sent paled in comparison. Yet here she stood before him, no longer another ghost in a past that he’d resigned to memory, probably thinking him as much of a fool as he felt.

Be careful what you wish for, he supposed.

“Fine,” he said, at last. “What do you need?” 

* * *

Which was how Carver Hawke found himself crammed into a tiny room off of the garden in Skyhold, whilst his friends and an admittedly cute cat gathered in front of something he could barely understand

Now that it was cleansed and complete, the eluvian felt bigger than he remembered. Perhaps it was the way it all seemed to fit together, now. In Skyhold, for some reason, the mirror made sense, as though it could have graced the great hall in another life. Or perhaps it was the way its face seemed near-perfect, almost _too_ perfect—the glass was webbed through with vein-like cracks, fine as spun obsidian, but the reflection in it was unblemished and crystal-sharp. Gazing into it for too long, gazing past the hazy flicker of your own reflection, felt like gazing into a dark pool of water, silent and still as death.

The eluvian looked as though it could draw you in and swallow you whole. Like it wanted to. It was the portal to something unholy. The portal, Carver had to force himself to remember, to his _sister_.

He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to step through it, but he knew that he must.

Outside, Fenris, Isabela, and Varric waited to alert them to any unexpected visitors. Having already experienced the Fade, or what he’d labelled “a dwarf’s worst existential nightmare,” Varric hadn’t protested when Merrill had decided that only she, Ri and Carver would be taking the risk. Neither had Fenris seemed bothered when Ri had asked him to make sure nobody got in—or out—of the cramped storage space. In fact, he’d looked strangely satisfied, turning to Anders with a sly grin and remarking “well, this shall be fun.”

Only Bela had questioned Merrill’s decision, her words drenched in desperation. But Merrill had stood firm.

“The nightmare will have enough to draw on from Hawke and Carver,” Merrill had told her, expression solemn. “Maybe too much, lethallen. We don’t know what we’ll find. This is already dangerous. ”

“Kitten, I can help! I know her. I _love_ her—”

“And if anything happened to you,” Merrill added, in a soft voice, “Bethany would never forgive herself.”

Though she looked ready to plead, to _beg_ , Isabela had bitten her tongue. Instead, she’d just nodded once, then taken a deep breath and slipped outside before anybody could ask if she was all right.

Carver desperately wished that he was out there with them rather than in here, but Merrill had said something about needing him to connect to Bethany, whatever _that_ meant. So he hovered towards the back of the room, far enough away from her twisted mirror and the slim, clean dagger on the table beside it as he could get, feeling more like a spare part than anything else. The only sounds were the mages conferring, the gentle scratch of quill on parchment, and the dry turning of pages. Interspersed, that was, with Ri’s occasional groan.

 _“Pierogi_ ,” she hissed. There was a tiny yowl as she gently nudged the cat with her foot. “No, I did _not_ just kick you, and we did not bring you up to behave like this! Don’t you dare piss on the eluvian—oh, for fuck’s sake. Anders, would you please discipline our child? Anders? Oh, you’re…”

Glowing. Faintly, just faintly, but the hazy blue sparking across Anders’ skin was enough to have Carver’s eyes narrowed and his hand settled on the dagger at his belt. He cared for his sister to an almost painful degree, and he tried to support her choices, and maybe he didn’t understand love as much as some, true. But he couldn’t lie to her. She knew how he felt about Anders, and about what Carver would do if the man dared to even _think_ about anything that would hurt his sister ever again.

Ri didn’t notice, though. Expression flooding with worry, she slipped between Anders and the bench scattered with components of his healer’s kit, taking one of his hands in hers. With her other, she gently cupped his face, as he pressed his eyes closed and tried to draw some steady breaths.

“I’m sorry, Marusya, I’m trying, I swear,” Carver could hear him murmur. “It’s just—the blood magic, and demons, and—what if you—what if I lose—”

“It’ll be fine, love,” Marian broke in, softly, looking like she was trying to reassure herself as much as him.

“You can’t _know_ that—”

“Anders.” Brushing the pad of her thumb against his sharp cheekbone, she gave a weak smile. “I’ll be fine. I _promise_. But I need to do this.”

At the words, Carver’s chest constricted; he pulled his gaze away. Bethany had said something like that, before she’d stayed behind in the Fade, hadn’t she?

Look how that had worked out.

Dappled and golden, the early dawn light was beginning to filter through the windows and glimmer on the eluvian’s cleansed, r when Carver heard the words he’d been dreading the most.

“Tinker! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

_Fuck._

“Varric! What are you doing up so early? That’s not like you.”

Inquisitor Dhava Lavellan’s voice carried through the door, clear as a bell, and the mages immediately froze. Then, after a horrible second, they began to frantically move—hiding away the books they’d been consulting, tucking the magical components away, throwing a thick, dark cloth over as much as the eluvian as they could cover. Wild-eyed and mouthing curses, Hawke scooped Pierogi into her arms and tried to hide him in her jacket, nudging Anders behind her. On the other side of the mirror, Merrill shot a nervous look at Carver.

“Figured I’d give it a try, see what all the fuss is about.” Carver envied Varric’s apparent calm. How could he be so unruffled? The worst-case scenario was standing just outside the door.

“Who are your friends?” Dhava asked politely.

“Oh, these two? Nobody important.”

“Oi! I take offence to that!” Isabela complained, whilst Fenris gave a low chuckle. Carver felt a soft pressure on his arm again, and he instinctively leaned down to hear Merrill better.

“Carver, is there another way out of here?” she asked. Worry sang in her voice; he didn’t have to guess why. A Dalish elf, surrounded by blades sworn to the Chantry. A blood mage, barely steps from a knife on the table beside her. An ancient mirror of unknown power looming over all of them. If there was anyone with the Inquisitor...

“Not unless you get that mirror working right now,” he said, his voice pitched low. But his tone didn’t hide the waver in his words; he sounded like a damn idiot.

“Are you sure that there’s nothing going on? Only, Cole said that you needed help,” Dhava remarked. At this, Varric inhaled sharply. Perhaps, Carver realised, the dwarf wasn’t so calm and collected after all.

“He did, did he?” Varric replied.

“He was quite insistent, actually. And that’s not an answer.”

“I think it’d be better for everyone if you had plausible deniability on this one, kid,” Varric said quickly. There was the faint, almost imperceptible sound of armour shifting and clinking as Isabela, Fenris, and Varric moved closer to the door. The metallic whisper of a knife being pulled from its sheath, too. Then a _hm_ from Fenris—a warning, Carver knew.

“Varric, companions, please step aside.” Dhava’s normally kind voice was clipped. Carver could barely hear the door swing open over the hammering of his heart against his ribcage. But it did swing open, to reveal the Inquisitor. The soft sunlight flickered across their snow-white hair, illuminating them with a honey-toned glow like some valiant hero of old. Bela and Fenris glanced over Dhava’s shoulders, looking distinctly unimpressed as the cloth suddenly slipped from where it covered the eluvian.

“Shit,” Anders muttered.

Dhava’s eyes flickered to the uncovered eluvian, to the fresh cuts on Merrill’s arms, and to the assembled members of Hawke’s crew.

“Inquisitor, I can explain,” Carver said quickly, before immediately realizing that any explanation was probably worse. Dhava held up a hand. Their next words were directed at Merrill, and there was a small smile on their face.

“You must be the eluvian expert I’ve heard so much about,” they said. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

“Andaran atish’an. It’s good to meet you as well, da’lin,” Merrill replied brightly, placing a hand across her heart.

Carver wondered if he’d hit his head on something. Dhava had _heard_ of her? From Varric’s stories, sure, but Carver had made sure the dwarf knew that some things would remain unmentionable. On pain of _death,_ he’d warned, though the words had tasted sour when they’d left his mouth. Sounded hollow, too, like he was nothing but a poor imitation of his sister; the look on Varric’s face had said the same.

But he’d meant it. Hatred festered bone-deep. Meredith may have been dead, but Meredith was one of many—most of whom were now corrupted by the drug they’d been forced to take, the rest of whom would probably still kill any apostate on sight. And if anyone found out about the blood magic, or the eluvian, or _anything_ that might have made Merrill more of a target than she already was—

Panic speared through Carver. Protecting her was the least he could do, after everything, and if he’d failed, if anyone else knew...

“From context clues, you’re trying to get into the Fade to rescue Bethany Hawke?” Dhava’s eyes drifted between the mirror and the blade, one eyebrow quirking.

“Ah, the skalds were right! Your wisdom truly is infinite,” Ri answered; the cheer in her voice didn’t match the dark glint to her narrowed eyes, or the way her fingers looked clawed, ready to cast. “And if you think you’re going to stop us—”

“Ri, don’t,” Carver broke in, moving to block the Inquisitor out of instinct, but Dhava silenced them both with a raised hand.

And rolled up their sleeves.

“Need a hand?” they asked.

Carver didn’t pretend to understand everything that was happening. A solid chunk of his attention was dedicated to having a slight heart attack about the fact that the head of the Inquisition was politely offering to help Merrill, Ri, and possibly the most wanted apostate in Thedas—who was also thought to be fucking _dead_ by those that mattered—figure out how to rescue his twin from the Fade.

What in the ever-loving _fuck._

“That’s so kind!” Merrill beamed before Hawke could protest, dragging a blade along the soft flesh of her left palm. “I’ve heard a bit about what you can do, too—Varric was _very_ complimentary! If you wouldn’t mind focusing on the mirror, I just need a few drops of...ah, there we are.”

Dhava’s mark glowed, as Merrill’s blood called to her mirror.

Then, the face of the eluvian flared into life, and the world lit up green.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Fade! Boogie Woogie Woogie
> 
> Carver, Hawke and Merrill step through the eluvian. But will they find Bethany?  
> And if they do, can they even save her at all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for: blood, violence, body horror, emotionally manipulative mentor figures who we don't like (to clarify, not Malcolm Hawke, he is a delight)  
> as always, let us know if we need other tags and we'll add them!

After Adamant, Ri hadn’t said much about the Fade.

She’d stumbled back through the rift drenched in blood and gore, sobbing harder than Carver had ever seen her. Any time he’d breached the topic since, it’d gone the same. Marian would take a deep breath, then tug her fingers through the new white streak in her hair and shake her head, slowly.

Apart from one night on the way back to Skyhold, that was. They’d been drunk and sad and spread-eagled beside each other in some Orlesian field, and she’d murmured, “It was so beautiful and so awful, and it’s all I can think about.”

Whether Ri had been speaking to him or to the stars shimmering above, Carver wasn’t sure. All he knew was that she’d never talked about it since, and that he didn’t know how it could be those two things at once.

Now, as he let the heady surge of magic pull him through the eluvian, Carver understood.

The Fade _was_ beautiful, in its own way. 

It was also supposedly filled with demons, which slightly detracted from that.

The part of the Fade they’d landed in, however, was eerily quiet. As they stared towards the empty horizon, dotted with a few lonely, jagged cairns of rock, there was one thing Carver could say for the place: it knew how to commit to a colour scheme. Everything swimming around him was a sickly, nauseating green that set his teeth on edge. And always, just at the edges of his vision, was darkness. Flickering, pulsing, the inky blackness seemed to ebb and flow with the frantic beat of his heart, like this place could feel the fear starting to swell inside him. Like it knew.

**_Oh, I know._ **

The words were part of him, or in him, slithering around his mind and crawling under his skin like little worms, and Maker, was that the voice of his father—

“Hey! What are you waiting for?” Ri called from up ahead. “And what are you _wearing?”_

Her words were a thousand tiny cuts, slicing through their father’s voice. Knocked from his daze, Carver flinched and suddenly realised that he’d been stood stock-still, staring at his upturned hands where they shook in mid-air, barely inches from his face. At the slim ribbon of a wound that sliced through his left palm, a mirror of that on Ri and Merrill’s. At the blood trickling down across his wrist and along his forearm, dropping onto the ground below them like tears.

His blood, black as the Void.

But everything was fine. He was _fine_. They’d cut their own hands, used their own blood. Merrill had sworn it was safe, and he trusted her more than—well, almost more than anything.

Pushing his fear down, Carver lowered his hands and turned back to face her. The darkness followed, licking at the edges of his vision. It pooled behind his sister, too, a distant swarm in the green sky. “What am I wearing? What do you...”

Glancing down at his clothing, his voice trailed off. Somehow, his customary armour was gone: in its place was an ill-fitting Templar uniform, digging into his skin and spattered with dried gore. He drew his gaze back up to Marian and realised that she was wearing demure Circle robes, dyed a dull mauve, and that her hair was suddenly darker. Plaited into a loose crown, too, the way she’d worn it when they were young.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose,” Marian murmured. Fiddling with the hem of her cape, she examined her robes, a confused attempt at a smile playing at her features.

Until she drew her uncut hand away and the smile faltered. Her fingertips were stained black, dotted with tiny, onyx gems of congealed blood.

“Fuck,” Ri breathed, all colour draining from her face. “This wasn’t how it was, not last time, not…fuck.”

“Creators, I...we must be in Bethany’s nightmare,” Merrill broke in, pressing her lips together, her eyes darting around them. “Everything seems so quiet. Too quiet. And I think whatever controls this place may be—uh, how do I...it may be _changing_ you, to fit into the dream.”

“But _you_ haven’t changed,” Carver protested.

Merrill frowned, a dimple puckering between her brows. “I’m not part of this nightmare, I think,” she explained. “As we draw nearer, you may not even be able to see me. If what Hawke said was true, and the demon latches onto your strongest fears and memories, well...Bethany may even not remember who I am at all.”

“Thanks, I hate it!” Marian hissed, starting to pace back and forth again, the false cheer in her voice sharp enough to slice through granite.

“This was your idea!” Carver snapped back, realizing too late that his voice was far louder than he’d intended. It echoed hollowly through the Fade, magnifying as it went.

And in the shadows, something began to stir.

**_Ideas, ideas._ **

Their father’s voice, again. Soft as whisper, but somehow everywhere.

**_Your sister is full of them. Always has been._ **

**_They never work out for you, though, do they?_ **

A laugh, one that felt like it was crawling through his skull.

**_The little brother, always overlooked._ **

“Don’t remind me,” Marian snapped, and Carver was horrified to realize that there was panic in her voice. Panic, and an edge of fear. “Are we going or not?”

“Fine,” he muttered, clenching his fists. His wound throbbed as more blood spilled from it; it felt strangely slimy as it slid beneath the gauntlet of the Templar armour, but Carver didn’t care. Somewhere in these green wastes was Beth. He’d find her. He could already feel a draw towards something, like someone had planted hooks beneath his skin and were pulling, ever-so-gently.

Blood magic. That connection to his sister that he didn’t understand. It had to be. So he set off, following its call, each brisk step slamming into the ground—

“Wait! She’s not that way!” Merrill called after him.

**_Do you believe her, Carver?_ **

**_She doesn’t know Bethany like we do._ **

The pull suddenly _yanked._

But at the elf’s voice, Carver stilled and let out a long, exhausted sigh. Slowly, gritting his teeth against the strange sensation, he turned back.

Even after knowing her for so long, what he saw still made his muscles tense. Countless drops of blood hovered above Merrill’s open palm, circling each other in a strange, hypnotic dance. One by one, they began to drift away in the opposite direction to where Carver had headed. Merrill lowered her hand and watched them for a moment, before turning to the siblings.“Trust me,” she murmured, bridging the gap between her and Carver. “This will work, lethallin. Your blood will lead us to her. I know it.”

 **Trust** **_her? The maleficarum? The pariah?_ **

But the maleficarum was giving Carver a reassuring smile that was making his pulse skitter and stumble, and suddenly, his father’s voice seemed a little less loud.

“All right,” Carver said, after a heartbeat passed. His words sounded far more confident than he felt. “Show us the way.”

A small hand slipped into his, and he looked down to find Merrill’s face turned up to him. She gave him a small nod, before leading him into the everlasting green.

* * *

They found Bethany in Lothering.

Well, it certainly _looked_ like Lothering. The same dilapidated cottages, the same run-down Chantry. It even had the battered bridge and worn dirt paths he remembered walking down as a child. It was all there, and it was all wrong. It was silent, as still as the grave.

Until the screaming began.

Carver was running before his brain had fully processed what was happening. The paths twisted and turned beneath his feet. Around him, the familiar buildings shifted, flames licking up the walls. Bethany’s screams seemed to come from every direction. He could taste copper on his tongue, rich and bloody.

“We have to help,” he rasped, skidding to a halt in the centre of the town square. Smoke choked the air, burning his throat; Marian caught up and instantly doubled over, dragging hoarse breaths into her lungs. “We need to—” 

**_Help? How could you help? You couldn’t save them the first time._ **

**_Remember Kirkwall. Remember Haven. You couldn’t save anyone, Carver Hawke._ **

**_You’re useless. Helpless. Hopeless._ **

There was a light pressure on his arm and he flinched away, his hand reaching for the blade on his back.

“It’s not real,” Merrill murmured, voice weak. At least, he thought it was Merrill. Something about her seemed distant, grey. There was no song to her words, no melody, not like usual. “The Fade is taking the shape of your nightmares.”

“What nightmares?” he managed, but he knew. How could he not?. Most nights, he woke with the smell of smoke and burning hair in his nose. Ten years, and the Blight still wouldn’t let him go.

“Lothering’s lost,” Marian called, distantly. “But Beth’s not. We need to move.”

Carver looked back at the burning buildings one more time, then nodded. Ri was right. There was nothing left for them here. There hadn’t been for a long time. There was only dust.

And screams. Bethany’s cries split the smoke-filled sky.

“Shit,” Marian muttered. “They’re louder. Worse. Maker _,_ what if we’re too late. What if…”

Ri swallowed her words as Merrill took her hand. A beat later, Carver felt the elf’s hand slip back into his, too. Without fully realising, he brushed his thumb across her knuckles; his stomach did a strange turn when he noticed what he was doing, and that somehow, her hand fit perfectly into his.

“Forward,” the echo of Merrill’s voice said, and she led them deeper into the nightmare. Beneath them, the paths continued to shift and turn, but Merrill didn’t falter. As they walked, Merrill grew fainter and fainter, until she was barely more than some kind of ghost, though her skin was still warm against his. After what was either ten minutes or ten years, they arrived at their childhood home.

The screaming stopped.

Carver and Marian shared an urgent, desperate glance and hurried inside. 

The cottage had always been too small for the Hawke family, especially once Carver and Marian hit their growth spurts. It was always impeccably clean, though, as if Leandra expected her family to appear from nowhere and critique the decor at any given moment. Carver ducked his head to enter out of habit, and felt the breath leave his lungs in a rush.

The earthen floor of his childhood home was covered in a dozen wrecked corpses, each one with his and Marian’s faces, each one wearing the same clothes as they.

A few steps behind him, Marian jerked to a stop. A low noise slid from her chest—a keening, like that of an animal trapped in the jaws of a snare. 

A few steps in front of him knelt Bethany.

“Is this really the best you can do? I’m frightened of other things, you know. You could at least try to branch out.”

His twin’s voice was nothing more than a mumble.

She’d been bent forwards at a horrible angle, her blood-matted hair spilling over her face, her ruined Warden armour hanging from her body in pieces. But now, she moved, and it took everything in Carver not to rush forwards and drag her into his arms. Every part of her was shaking as she struggled to her feet using her cracked staff as a crutch, like it was taking all her strength to keep her from collapsing to the floor.

When she turned, Carver had to bite down on his tongue to suppress a cry.

Her skin was sallow as death, and her face was a patchwork of bruises, seeping wounds, and blood.

“Brother, sister,” Beth stated, but there was no spark of warmth to her words, no recognition. Her eyes were glassy: she stared through her siblings, instead of _at_ them. “Rage, Pride. I suppose you’ve come to try to kill me again.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you’d believe we’re _not_ demons?” Ri asked. “A demon would never pull off these robes like I do, Beth. My arse, in this? Spectacular.”

An attempt at a joke, Carver realised. An attempt to be the Ri that Beth knew.

Beth’s expression was empty. A cut on her bottom lip split open as she answered, blood dribbling down her chin; she barely registered. “Not likely, no.”

Ri tried to smile. “Not even if we say a bunch of things that only a sibling could know?”

“This is my nightmare. It knows things even _I_ don’t know,” Bethany replied. “No hard feelings, _sister_ , but I think it’d be safer to just kill you. Thanks all the same.”

“Worth a shot,” Marian said, with a sigh.

“Wait, that’s _it?_ ” Carver demanded. “You’re just going to give up?” 

Marian shrugged, reaching for her staff.

“She’s got a point, Carver. We’re not going to be able to convince her. Hawke stubbornness, and all that. I say we knock her unconscious and drag her sorry arse out of here.”

Carver reached desperately for something— _anything_ —that might let him break through to Bethany. He conjured up images of them together, in this house. Helping with the chores, telling scary stories late into the night. Hiding from the Templars, as they searched the town for apostates. Together, always, through it all.

What good was he, if he couldn’t protect her?

**_No good, Carver Hawke._ **

**_No good at all._ **

“Sister, please, I don’t want to hurt you.” Carver’s voice was ragged, and there was a sharp ache in his chest, in his palm. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

Beth’s expression softened slightly. She stepped towards him, gaze locked with his. For a moment, one small moment, he thought he’d reached her.

“Pathetic,” Bethany murmured, and the bladed end of her staff lashed out at him.

Instinct was a hell of a thing. Carver reacted without thinking, pulling his blade from its scabbard and easily blocking Beth’s staff.

Her attack bounced off the blade of his longsword and she snarled, spinning back into a defensive stance. Magic crackled along her staff, fire and ice blending with lightning, casting dark shadows through the cottage. Ri threw up a barrier with a flick of her hand—but she was just a hair too late.

Carver felt his back slam into the wall hard enough that he saw stars. A cry tore from his chest as he heard a hideous _click_ , his shoulder screaming with pain. His sword flew from his hand, skittering just out of reach. Pins and needles buzzed along his arm, and bile stung his throat.

“Fucking _Maker,”_ he groaned, blinking back tears. She’d been a healer in Kirkwall, occasionally dabbling in a bit of force magic. What had the Wardens been teaching her?

“A telekinetic burst?” Ri sighed and stepped in front of Carver as he tried to scuttle forwards, towards his sword. “Oh, Beth, don’t be so derivative _.”_

Marian’s barrier enveloped him, but it felt off. Wrong. Cold as an ice bath, like a dozen blades being raked across his skin. The sensation almost knocked the air out of his lungs once more and he bent double in pain, his sword forgotten.

And when she unleashed a barrage of magic that hit their sister square in the chest, Ri hollered.

The magic cascading from her staff was red as blood where it was normally a clear, sharp white, and blood was spurting from the cut on her hand.

**_Ah, blood magic. I always told her not to, didn’t I?_ **

**_I know she took that knife. I know she made that mark herself._ **

**_Silly girl. Never listens._ **

Carver had been at Ostagar. He’d been dragged away from the field, the sound of screams and death ringing in his ears. This was worse. Through the scarlet haze of pain across his eyes, he saw Bethany pause and cock her head to the side.

“That’s a new one, I’ll give you that. Points for creativity.”

“Fuck you!” Marian spat, and raised her hand to cast again. Spears of ice shot across the room at Bethany, but Ri let out another scream that set Carver’s teeth on edge, her knees almost buckling. Teeth bared like a wild thing, she clutched her hand to her Circle robes, eyes screwing shut in pain.

There was a light touch on his arm and he looked around wildly. Merrill slowly faded into view, worry creasing her forehead as she dropped to one knee beside him.

“What’s going on?” he asked desperately.

“I—I don’t know,” she said. “Something’s wrong with Hawke’s magic. She’s no blood mage—this shouldn’t be happening—”

“Can you fix it?” he asked. Merrill raised a hand to the side of his face and carefully wiped some blood away.

“I’ll try.” Her voice was firm. “I swear.”

“...Merrill?”

Bethany sounded, for the first time since they found her, uncertain. Carver and Merrill both glanced over to her and carefully, Merrill raised her free hand, palm open.

“Hello, Bethany,” she said gently.

“You’re not—you’re not part of this,” Bethany said. Out of the corner of his eye, Carver caught sight of Ri slowly moving towards their sister, staff raised even though her body was wracking with pain.“We’re here to rescue you,” Merrill explained carefully. “Although respectfully, you are making it a wee bit tricky at the moment.”

“Why should I trust you?” Bethany asked. “Especially given that you keep _attacking me.”_ She whirled around, her hands blurring as she knocked Ri’s weapon from where it was clutched feebly, sending it clunking across the floor. She held the bladed end of her staff up to Marian’s throat, a snarl curling her lips.

“I saw them _take_ you.” Beth’s voice cracked. “To the Circle. Over and over and over again. And then they sent you back, to come for me. With him.” Her gaze slid to Carver. Tears glittered at the corners of her eyes. “A Templar.”

“Trust me? You started it,” Marian forced through gritted teeth, undaunted even in the face of a very large knife pressed to her neck and the shadow-black blood pouring down her arm. “Carver joined the Guard, remember? And Maker, Beth, you know I wouldn’t choose to wear this shit. You can hardly see my chest!”

Bethany’s eyes flashed, and for one horrible second Carver was sure that Ri’s glib tongue was finally going to get her killed.

But nothing happened. Letting out a sharp breath, Bethany looked over at Merrill again, at Merrill’s hand still resting gently on Carver’s face. Her gaze hovered there, for a little too long. Suddenly blushing, Merrill pulled away jerkily, like a marionette being played by some unseen force above.

At the loss of her touch, Carver could have sworn that the Fade had suddenly become much darker, that the pain in his shoulder had flared. But that was ridiculous. It was all just in his head. It was this place, messing with him. Fucking _Fade_.

She was no healer, after all. She was just Merrill. 

Carver’s cheeks suddenly burned, and he tore his gaze back to his twin, hoping he didn’t look as beet-red as he felt. Beth raised an eyebrow, mouth still pressed into a firm line, then nodded sharply and returned her staff to its customary place on her back.

“I hope you understand that I will kill you at the first sign of betrayal,” she said. “Nothing personal, of course.”

“You’ve always been shit at reunions, Beth,” Ri replied. Somehow, she managed a ragged grin even as blood flooded from her hand, soaking into the loam beneath their feet like spring rain.

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Bethany’s lips.

“It runs in the family.”

**_I suppose you think you’ve won? Foolish. We’re just beginning._ **

The words shook the cottage, tearing the shutters from the windows and sending them careening through the room. The walls were torn away, collapsing like a house of cards, vanishing in front of Carver’s eyes. But rather than the outskirts of Lothering, they were standing in the middle of a forest.

**_You’re clever. But you aren’t clever enough._ **

Suddenly, Carver realised the voice had changed. It was no longer his father’s soft, awful murmur. Instead, it was that of a woman: lilting, wise, the words recited like a poem.

And it was everywhere—drifting through the trees around them, stretched out, hissing and warping until it was all they could hear.

**_There is always more fear._ **

Carver’s breath hitched, the pain in his shoulder spiking. 

“Marethari,” Ri breathed, between groans of pain.

Desperately, he looked at Merrill for guidance, but her mouth was hanging open as she slowly rose to her full height. The green of her vallaslin suddenly came into sharper focus as her face drained of all colour; her eyes, he realised, had glazed over. And that—oh, that scared the shit out of him.

“No,” she murmured. “It can’t...I…”

Merrill bolted.

* * *

She knew this place, although how long had it been? Months? Years? It felt like yesterday that she was tracing Tamlen’s footsteps back to the eluvian, Isen following close behind. She could taste the desperation on her tongue, could hear the garbled, chattering cries of the darkspawn echoing through the trees.

Merrill shook her head to clear it. It wasn’t yesterday. It was _now_. She needed to help Isen find Tamlen. Where was Isen? Merrill’s gaze tore across her surroundings desperately. She was circled by strangers, all shem. With a small cry, she stumbled back, whipping her staff from her back.

“Merrill, please.” The tallest of the strangers, a man with dark hair, moved closer to her. She lifted her staff threateningly, readying a spell.

A flash of movement caught her eye, and there was Isen racing through the woods, the grey tendrils of the Blight infection twisting across his face.

**_You will fail them, Merrill._ **

“No!” she screamed, the cry tearing from her throat. She turned away from the strangers, and she began to run. Her bare feet raced down the familiar paths, easily evading her pursuers. She followed the signs that Isen had left for her; deliberately broken branches, rocks laid into a pattern.

**_Not fast enough._ **

By the time she made it to the cave’s entrance, her breaths were ragged. She could hear the distant sounds of the strangers bumbling through the woods. She moved on, fighting darkspawn as she went, picking her way through the abandoned ruins. Every step she took, she couldn’t fight the feeling that this was all too familiar. Everything called to her; there were whispers in her mind, faded memories. She recognized the dilapidated walls of the ruins, knew where each enemy was approaching from before they could even make a sound. But how could she? She’d never been here before.

As easy as breathing, she avoided the trap in the hallway leading to the eluvian. The ancient door creaked as she heaved it open, and on the other side she found what she somehow knew was waiting for her, had been waiting for her all along: her friends. Isen was cradling Tamlen in his arms, holding him to his chest, his mouth twisted into a silent howl. At the sound of her gasp, Isen’s head shot up, and Merrill’s chest contracted painfully.

The sclera of his eyes had turned a dull, lifeless grey.

“You’re too late,” he spat. His voice was sharp, serrated.

That wasn’t _right._ Isen had always been kind, to a fault.

“I’m sorry,” Merrill rasped, mouth dry. “I tried—I followed—I’m _sorry_ —”

“Not yet you aren’t,” Isen said grimly. Tamlen moved, transforming in front of Merrill’s eyes, becoming more ghoulish with every second that passed. Both he and Isen drew their blades, and they stalked closer to Merrill.

“Please, stop,” she said desperately, backing away. Isen’s dagger came hurtling towards her face and she raised her staff to block the blow. It _should_ have connected, should have sent a jolt rattling through her arm. It didn’t. Instead, a massive longsword blocked the blow, held by the tall stranger that Merrill had run from.

“Get behind me, Merrill,” he said through gritted teeth. Cuts laced his face, from racing past sharp branches.

“No! Don’t hurt them!” she shouted. She stepped between the stranger and Isen and Tamlen. Sharp claws dug into her back, suddenly. She let out a sharp, startled cry of pain and stumbled forward. The stranger caught her and held his blade out at the ready.

But that wasn’t right. Her friends didn’t have claws. And how had she known where everything was? Why did this all feel so familiar and yet so _wrong?_

“Merrill, please, we need you,” the stranger pleaded. _“I_ need you.”

For the first time, she looked up into his face. His eyes were clear and blue as the Waking Sea, and as they locked onto hers, something warm kindled inside her chest.

“Carver?” she murmured.

Relief flooded his expression, dancing in those eyes, and he held onto her just a little too tight.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” he breathed.

“Where are the others?” Merrill asked. There had been others, she remembered now, both with that same dark hair, those same sharp cheekbones.

“Back here!” Bethany called from the corridor. The sounds of battle filtered into the room. 

“We’re ready to go,” Marian shouted. Why was her hand slick with something dark—blood, or oil, or was she some kind of monster? “Right about now would be delightful!”

Merrill blinked, and the green film that had covered her eyes slowly slipped away. Tamlen and Isen disappeared, replaced by shrieking despair demons.

“I’ve had just about enough of this,” Merrill said grimly.

**_You cannot defeat me._ **

“Watch me,” she muttered. With a flash of magic she sent the demons careening back, slamming them into the wall of the cave with a tidal wave of earth. She grabbed Carver by the arm and called for the others to follow her. Together, they ran up the steps to the eluvian.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Marian asked, eyeing the mirror.

“It will have to be,” Merrill said firmly, motioning to the door. Demons were pouring in, quick as the tide, until the room was swarming with them. Merrill raised a blade to her hand and cut deep enough to tear a wail from her throat. As she raised a hand to the mirror, teeth bared in an unholy grin, the ruins began to warp and fade around them.

**_NO!_ **

The Nightmare was too late. The world went white, and then Merrill and the others were stumbling through the eluvian, falling into a pile in the disused room in Skyhold.

“Bel—”

“Beth!”

“Masha?”

“Fucking _Maker_ — _”_

“Close it!” Merrill called weakly. She saw Anders jerk to his feet and wave a hand. His eyes glowed blue, and the eluvian stilled behind them.

“Good,” she said, and passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! we hope you liked it - this is one of our favourite chapters. let us know what you thought in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, we really hope you enjoyed this first chapter! We're having a blast messing with canon and can't wait for what's coming up, and we're always up for a chat - let us know what you thought in the comments!
> 
> The title's from Tennyson's The Lady of Shalott, because we're a sucker for the Romantics and a bit of courtly romance, so that might give you hints as to what to expect...


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